Max's Reviews > Daniel Martin

John Fowles is one of my favorite contemporary writers, and now--having read Daniel Martin--I almost regret not saving it for my last read of his. It was written nearer the middle of his career, but still manages to provide the most wonderful feeling of autobiographical summation, like an epic epilogue reflection on life lived. Being that the life in question is that of a narcissistic playwright turned jaded Hollywood screenwriter too much obsessed with the nostalgia of his youth and the yearning lingering loves of his past, I was almost guaranteed to relate, though I of course lack Dan's age and perspective. Perhaps I can read this again when I'm 50 and see it in a new light. This is that kind of a book.

I don't quite understand the criticisms Fowles endures for Daniel Martin in particular (which informed on my desire to pick it up); it's a dense thing to be sure, but absolutely rich with lovingly written, complicated characters and the kind of narrative structure that brings out the subtleties of its own telling in ways that illuminate the shrewd dexterity of Fowles' abilities as a novel-writer. I especially loved the subtle shifts between narrative forms, which could have come off as pretentious metafiction, but instead expand on the idea of Dan as a creator of narratives and observer of his own life.

Is Daniel Martin too much John Fowles: self-absorbed misogynist anhedonic intellectual? Honestly, I've never gotten this from Fowles, and if anything Daniel Martin stands for me as a testament against all that. It's a deeply Romantic apologia for all that misconception, a warmly emotional treatise on how to live (and love) together as people. Fowles could be a crotchety bastard, but about halfway through the book I stopped associating him with his protagonist. Daniel Martin stands on his own.